


Stay With Me

by Celticgal1041



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Brotherhood, Family, Fête des Mousquetaires competition, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-22
Updated: 2015-09-22
Packaged: 2018-04-22 23:13:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4854284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celticgal1041/pseuds/Celticgal1041
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Stay with me," he repeated the words like an unending refrain, believing that their continued repetition would will the man at his side to survive the odds and not leave them this day. Entry for the Fête des Mousquetaires competition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stay With Me

“Stay with me,” he repeated the words like an unending refrain, believing that their continued repetition would will the man at his side to survive the odds and not leave him this day. The longer that things dragged on, the harder it became to keep his comrade even semi-aware, the cold and relentless waters around them sapping their strength as well as the life from their bodies. “Stay with me,” Athos said again, the slight blue tinge in his brother’s lips pumping fresh adrenaline through his veins as he considered the possibility that only one man would be rescued from the rushing waters alive.

 

The leap into the river had been a foolhardy choice, but the satchel had to be retrieved, the penalty for losing the documents contained within too severe to consider; not worth the loss of a man’s life though, Athos reflected bitterly. He’d spurred his horse into motion immediately, the only one of their group to notice when their brother-in-arms had entered the frigid waters and been swept out of sight almost instantly. The shoreline had been difficult to traverse and, even now, he could feel the sting of the cuts that peppered his face from his mad dash through and around the trees that often appeared in his path as he’d raced to keep up with the raging torrent of frothy white beside him.

 

In the end, it had been fate who had intervened and his fellow Musketeer had been caught in the low-hanging branches of one of the trees he’d been cursing, snagging the hapless man’s belt and holding him fast against the current that threatened to pull him away again. Athos had stumbled gracelessly from his horse, another obscenity bursting forth, this time at his own clumsiness at such an inopportune time. He loathed the time it took to divest himself of his weapons and heavy leathers, but he knew that entering the waters fully clothed would only seal both his friend’s fate and his own, having watched his brother struggle valiantly to stay above the water as he’d been tossed around like a cork in the tumultuous waters.

 

As he dipped his toes into the icy liquid, he second-guessed himself for a moment, wondering if he shouldn’t wait for the others to find them. But the current tugged at his brother’s body and it was pulled underneath the dark surface, letting him know without a doubt that his continued hesitation would cost him his friend’s life. The six feet he had to traverse to reach the Musketeer’s side brought the water to his chest and no amount of willpower could stop the shivering that racked his frame seconds later. Stretching a hand forward even before he’d fully reached the man’s side, he pulled the man’s head and upper body back into the sunlight. He was nearly overwhelmed when he was rewarded with a gasping breath, followed by the explosion of several harsh coughs from the drowning man’s lips.

 

His conundrum became apparent almost immediately as he realized that his brother was well and truly stuck, and with one hand occupied in keeping his friend’s head above water, he was unable to search for a way to release him. This left them in the untenable and precarious position of fighting the insistent pull of the river’s current, the heat already mercilessly leached from their bodies, leaving them both weakened and vulnerable. Athos had patted his friend’s face and the now familiar words had spilled forth, “Stay with me. Open your eyes; stay with me.”

 

They’d had little effect on his weakened and hypothermic comrade, but the thready heartbeat that persisted beneath his fingertips had him believing that perhaps some part of his friend was aware enough to hear him. The belief was so strong that no matter how numb his own lips became, he would not risk falling silent lest his brother slip away in the quiet void that remained. He craned his head towards the banks of the river, praying that one of their group would soon find them, the clock in his head marking off each passing second which drew both of them closer to death. The water around him merged into a collage of blues and grays as his vision shadowed and he considered for a moment that fate must have a strange sense of humour, since his presence on their current mission was due only to happenstance, having been on light duties while still recovering from his latest brush with death.

 

_“Stay with me,” Aramis coaxed, his warm hand gentle but insistent on his cheek. While the medic was used to dealing with their various injuries and had learned to stay calm as he evaluated and treated his friends, Athos could also discern the underlying fear that colored his friend’s words. “Stay with me, Athos,” the medic repeated, and Athos fought to find enough strength in his failing body to do as Aramis had asked._

_There was pain now and a new voice above him, “He’s bleedin’ like a stuck pig.” The visual the words created were exceedingly unpleasant and his body shuddered in reply._

_“Stay with me, Athos,” Aramis repeated again, having noticed his friend’s shiver and assumed that the man was in pain. Ironically, that was one sensation that Athos had yet to experience, simply feeling weak and heavy, and wanting nothing more than to fade away into the blackness. There was something that was keeping him there though, and his muddled mind struggled to remember why he couldn’t let himself fall. “Stay with me,” the words were accompanied by a tapping on his cheek and Athos startled as he was jolted back to the present._

_Next to his prone body, Porthos pulled a second kerchief from his pocket, folding it quickly before adding it on top of the already sodden one that covered the hole in Athos’ shoulder. Leaning forward slightly, the large man brought more of his body weight to bear as he desperately tried to slow the flow of blood. Athos’ body fought against the surge of pain the action caused, instantly consumed by an intense fire that encompassed his entire left side that stole the breath from his chest. At his resulting moan of agony, Aramis’ words soothed him as he heard, “Stay with me, Athos. You’re going to be alright.”_

_He must have drifted for a while after that as the next sensation he was aware of was the incredible pressure of something being forced into his flesh, the muscle and sinew of his shoulder protesting the violation seconds later and pulling a cry of pain from his throat. When the agony had receded, he could hear the words again, this time more a plea than before as a hand carded through his sweat-dampened hair, “Stay with me, Athos. We’re nearly done.” The deep, low timbre could only belong to Porthos and the sound resonated around him as he belatedly realized that his head and shoulders were cradled in his friend’s lap._

_Liquid fire lapped at his skin and his body involuntary tried to move away from the burning sensation, the hands that had recently comforted now restraining him against his attempts to rise. “Stay with me, Athos. You’re alright. Just a bit of brandy; nothin’ you can’t handle.” His spent body collapsed back down into his brother’s support and he could feel his breath heaving in and out of his chest, leaving him lightheaded and disconnected from reality._

_Time skipped forward once more and he heard the faint hint of amusement this time as Aramis cajoled, “Stay with me, Athos. I need you to wake up. I know you don’t want to but you must drink.” This time, the tone of the medic’s words conveyed a different message, letting him know that while worried, the man was relatively certain that he would survive. Despite that, Athos’ body was reluctant to comply with his friend’s request, preferring to slip away into pain-free unconsciousness, but Aramis was not so easily deterred. Hardening his tone, Aramis spoke again, “You must stay with me, Athos. You’ve bled heavily and must take some water before you sleep.”_

_Summoning every last tendril of his remaining strength and infusing it with every ounce of determination he possessed, Athos raised his eyelids, blinking against the distorted image that greeted him. The effect was instantaneous as the breath left Aramis’ chest in a great whoosh, the relief of seeing Athos’ dulled, blue eyes reassuring him that their friend had done as they’d asked. As the older man watched from his reclined position, Aramis’ face tilted up to address Porthos, a soft smile gracing his face as he confirmed, “He’s still with us.”_

 

A shout from the shoreline had Athos sharply turning to identify the source, his grip slipping from the wet leather and he swore as it pulled from his grasp. The jolt of fear he felt thrummed like electricity and pushed strength he thought he’d lost through his muscles as his hands plunged into the cold water, searching for any sign of his friend. His fingertips were numb and nearly senseless but he felt the pressure of something brush against them and scrabbled to catch whatever it was, relief rolling over him as the familiar leather pauldron cleared the surface of the water. He grimaced and grunted in pain as the weight of his brother’s body tugged at his still healing wound, but he ruthlessly pushed the pain aside to concentrate on his friend.

 

In the time that he’d been underwater, the Musketeer’s eyes had closed and Athos leaned close and turned his cheek to the man’s mouth, the seconds ticking by endlessly until the felt the faintest brush of breath heralding his comrade’s ongoing battle for life. He braced them both as best he could, giving another experimental tug to see if the branches had released their hold on his comrade, but the man was still caught somewhere and Athos was unable to discern where. When their precarious position was as stable as he could make it, he turned his gaze back to the riverbank where Aramis had dismounted his horse and was staring at them worriedly, waiting for Athos to speak.

 

“He’s caught fast and I can’t let go to check where,” Athos called, surprised at how hoarse he sounded and how much energy the act of speaking had required.

 

Aramis seemed similarly surprised and he moved quickly to pull rope from his saddlebags, looking for a nearby stout tree to which he could fasten one end. The marksman was more familiar than most with the dangers of being immersed in icy waters and he worked efficiently to anchor the rope on dry land in order to pull the two men free of the river’s hold. Returning to the shoreline, Aramis made eye contact with the older man and, when he appeared ready, swung the looped rope in a wide arc before releasing it from his grip, allowing it to fly across the distance between them.

 

Aramis’ aim had been true and Athos snagged the rope with one hand, pulling it closer and shaking it out in order to wind it around his friend’s chest. It was slow going, the weight of his comrade’s waterlogged and limp body making it difficult to hold while also tethering it to the rope, but when he was done, Athos had successfully made a harness that looped under his brother’s arms and around his chest and was held in place by the strongest knot he could manage. As he finished, he heard the barest of moans and he leaned closer once more, waiting for any further signs of awareness and sighing dejectedly when nothing else was forthcoming, muttering almost under his breath, “Stay with me, brother.”

 

Turning toward dry land again, he saw Aramis expectantly waiting on him, his hands wrapped around the lifeline that anchored their friend. “Can you work him free now?” the marksman asked, readying himself to take up the slack if the Musketeer’s body shifted. Finding himself unable to adequately form words with his chilled lips, Athos merely nodded and turned to the task of freeing their comrade. Again, his hands were thrust into the frigid waters, and he realized belatedly that he no longer felt the cold, something that should probably have him worried but for some reason did not. He patted clumsy fingers along the length of the limp Musketeer’s body, his fingers tangling in the same trap that ensnared his friend, the tree branches thick in the water around them. As the Musketeer’s body had been buffeted around in the current, one of the boughs had inserted itself into the man’s doublet. Athos allowed himself a grim smile of satisfaction at having located the trouble as he prepared to slide his brother free. Exerting increasingly more pressure on the man’s body, he was shocked when it still seemed stuck fast and he tugged hard, determined that the river would not be the victor.

 

An inhuman howl of pain escaped his companion’s lips before he fell completely limp, the man’s head slipping beneath the water’s surface before Aramis could compensate. On shore, the marksman had been unprepared to take the man’s entire weight and was pulled forward a step before catching himself and pulling fiercely to prevent their friend from drowning. Athos was stunned by what had happened, the cry of agony unexpected and he trembled with the fear that he might have just made things worse. He turned dazed eyes on the medic who was calling to him, needing him to check on the Musketeer beside him, “Athos, stay with me.” As the words left his mouth, Aramis was reminded of how powerful the entreaty could be when spoken by a brother.

 

_“Stay with me; I gotcha,” the voice intoned and Aramis wondered where he’d been going. His head lolled sideways, feeling far too heavy for his neck, and was caught and righted by a large palm, its gentleness belied by the calloused fingers. “Stay with me, Aramis,” Porthos repeated as he held the marksman in his arms and kept him still._

_A new sensation penetrated the haze that suffused his mind and Aramis shivered, moaning softly in discomfort. The cold seemed to be all around him, seeping into his bones and holding him tightly in a relentless grip that he was unable to escape. Weakly, he thrashed against it, managing to flail a hand that was caught by another and Porthos’ soothing tone came again, “Stay with me, ‘Mis; not much longer now.”_

_The words were confusing and the marksman couldn’t understand why his friend wouldn’t help him; wouldn’t warm him up and release him from the frigid prison that seemed to encase him. Another tendril of awareness tugged at his brain and he smelled water, its clean fresh scent invading his nostrils. With a supreme effort of will, he managed to unstick his eyelids and open them partway, blinking heavily to bring his surroundings into focus. He was drowning! He thrashed again, panic fueling his limbs and Porthos’ calm, even voice quieted him once more, “Stay with me; I won’t let you go.”_

_Relaxing against his friend as his strength deserted him, he licked parched lips and croaked, “Where?”_

_Above his head, Porthos smiled at his friend’s improved condition, tipping his head close to the marksman’s ear as he replied, “Your fever was too high and we had to cool you down.” Looking around the shallow stream in which he supported his friend, he continued, “This seemed the best option.” Seeing Aramis’ eyes close again, he asked, “Still with me?”_

_The marksman managed a weak upturning of his lips as he breathed out, “Still here.”_

 

A thundering of hooves behind him pulled his attention back to the present and, seconds later, Porthos’ strong hands were next to his, adding his strength to the rope which held the limp Musketeer. Taking the situation in quickly, the large man called to Athos, “Can you guide him while we pull him out?” It was difficult to see the blue of Athos’ lips from that distance, but the pale features and slow movements of a body too long immersed in the cold didn’t escape Porthos’ keen eye and he was determined to have both men on dry ground as quickly as possible. Athos gave a stuttering nod in reply, moving his frozen hands to his brother’s insensate form and guiding him onto his back while the two men on shore hauled on the rope and drew the unconscious Musketeer toward them.

 

Athos followed in his comrade’s wake, one hand holding the injured man’s head out of the water to prevent it from being submersed, while his other hand ran along the tree limb, steadying his own movements back toward the riverbank. He watched as Porthos released his grip on the coarse twine, bending forward to pull their brother out of the water and drag him several feet onto dry ground. Athos’ eyes followed and he was startled to find himself being pulled into motion, Aramis needing to get him out of the river as well and concerned by his dazed expression. “Stay with me, Athos. Come on, just a few more steps.”

 

With the marksman’s assistance, he found himself next to his silent companion, blissfully unaware of his body’s reaction to the breeze that now further cooled the skin that it touched and made him shiver uncontrollably. “He’s so still,” he heard a broken voice whisper, realizing belatedly that he’d been the one to speak when both Aramis and Porthos glanced at him worriedly from where they were attempting to undress their friend. With effort, he inched closer and placed a numb hand on his companion’s face, returning to his earlier mantra in hopes that their efforts hadn’t been too late, “Stay with me, d’Artagnan. Help’s here.” The words sparked an odd sense of déjà vu and Porthos’ mind drifted to the last time he’d heard them spoken.

 

_“Stay with me, Porthos,” d’Artagnan cajoled, his tone a mix of compassion and hardness that suggested that no matter how badly he wanted to let his friend sleep, he was determined to keep the man awake for his own good. The large man groaned in reply, voicing his frustration with the situation in the only way he was able, the act of speaking, let alone forming complete sentences, currently beyond him._

_He had no memory of what had prompted the severe ache in his skull, but the appeal of sleep was potent and he found himself slowly beginning to drift, the agony lessening as his hold on consciousness loosened. It couldn’t be a bad thing, he reasoned, to allow himself a respite from the pain; surely his brothers would not want him suffering. The thought brought him some solace and he allowed himself to relax, only to moan deeply as someone pinched him. “No time for sleep yet, Porthos. I need you to stay with me for a while longer.”_

_He tossed his head to one side in an effort to get away from the Gascon’s relentless prodding but regretted the action immediately as the throb in his head escalated to a deafening cacophony that drowned out everything around him. Above him, d’Artagnan did his best to soothe his injured friend, gripping his shoulders tightly and murmuring a never-ending stream of comforting words, “Stay with me, Porthos. You can do this. Just relax and breathe through it.” But the large man’s body had exceeded its tolerance, no longer able to handle the extreme pain, and Porthos weakly tried to turn to the side as he began to gag helplessly._

_The young man heaved his friend over to one side and held his head out of the puddle of sickness that formed as the concussed man purged his belly. Porthos hung limply in the Gascon’s arms and moaned in misery as the throbbing of his head increased with the violent expulsion of his stomach contents. Through the entire ordeal, d’Artagnan tried to comfort his friend, and when the large man had finished, he tipped a water skin to his companion’s mouth so he could rinse away the foul taste of his sickness. Porthos followed d’Artagnan’s command to drink and spit by instinct, his mind still reeling from the sensory overload that made coherent thought impossible._

_He had no idea how much time had passed, but when some small degree of awareness returned, he could hear d’Artagnan’s quiet voice above him and feel the warm brush of someone’s hand on his temple as the fingers carded gently through his hair. “Stay with me,” the Gascon said, hoping that Porthos would find his way back to him._

_Porthos smiled faintly at the young man’s actions and managed to reply, “Not goin’ anywhere.”_

“Good Lord, what’s ‘e done to ‘imself?” Porthos asked in horror, noting the coldness of the Gascon’s skin along with the slowly widening puddle of red on his right flank. They’d stripped the boy of his doublet, boots, breeches and shirt, prying the recovered satchel from stiff and frozen fingers, and were now faced with the ugly reality that the tree limb which had effectively saved the young man’s life when it had stopped his perilous race down the river, had exacted a high price, having driven itself into the young man’s side.

 

“My bag,” Aramis ordered, his hand moving to plug the sluggishly bleeding hole as he weighed the need to warm their friend with the risk that he would bleed out as the cold loosened its grip on him. Porthos rose to retrieve the requested bag and the medic spared a glance at Athos who still sat dripping wet beside the young man. Aramis cursed softly as he evaluated the older man’s condition which was barely better than the Gascon’s. “Bring blankets too,” he yelled over his shoulder before turning his attention to the older man.

 

“Athos, you must take off those wet clothes.” The older man stared at him without comprehension, the cogs of his mind moving as though mired in molasses. “Athos,” Aramis spoke again, “get undressed, now.” The steely tone seemed to cut through the fog surrounding Athos’ brain and he moved slowly to comply, his uncoordinated fingers struggling with the damp and clingy fabric of his shirt. “Dammit,” the marksman swore again, needing to be able to help both men but having no choice but to deal with the more severe injury first.

 

Porthos arrived back at his side in a flurry of hurried footsteps, dropping the bag and blankets beside the marksman before going to his knees, a hand already hovering over Aramis’ to take his place. “Get what you need and then I’ll help Athos,” the large man ordered, having correctly interpreted the medic’s dilemma and the precariousness of both men’s conditions.

 

Aramis wasted no time and pulled his hand away, wiping it carelessly on his breeches before digging into his bag of supplies. With practiced efficiency, he threaded a needle, dousing it thoroughly with brandy before readying a stack of clean linen at his side. With a short nod to Porthos, the man released his grip and moved it to the young man’s shoulders as the medic poured the strong spirits over the Gascon’s side. When there was no reaction, Porthos traded a quick glance with Aramis and moved to help Athos, the older man having given up on removing his sodden clothing to stare at d’Artagnan’s still form instead.

 

“Athos, stay with me now. We need to get you out of these and warmed up,” Porthos explained, his hands already moving to grasp the hem of his friend’s shirt. The process of undressing the older man was only slightly easier than it had been with the Gascon, Athos able to at least move his arms and legs when assisted by the larger man. Athos grimaced a moment when Porthos went to remove his braies but the large man simply shook his head as he reached to get hold of the waterlogged fabric and said, “Ain’t no time for modesty, Athos, and you don’t have anything we haven’t seen before.” The older man knew Porthos was right but he averted his eyes anyway, letting them fall on d’Artagnan’s slowly rising chest as his friend stripped him of his last item of clothing.

 

The large man grabbed a blanket and rubbed Athos’ body with it quickly before covering him in a second, dry blanket, wrapping him tightly and frowning at the continued trembling of the older man’s body. With a quick look to Aramis, he asked, “Alright?” Aramis didn’t spare the time needed to answer and just gave a short dip of his head, his attention steadfastly focused on the small, neat stitches he was placing. Porthos stood and gathered a decent supply of wood, starting a fire nearby as soon as he had enough and moving a stumbling Athos to sit beside its warmth.

 

As soon as Aramis had finished with d’Artagnan, Porthos wrapped the boy in another blanket and carried him to lay next to Athos, the older man’s gaze never once leaving his protégé. Aramis stuffed his supplies back into his bag and joined them at the fire, already looking Athos over and unhappy with the pale features he saw there. “How is he?” the older man rasped, his eyes darting momentarily to the medic’s.

 

Swallowing down a sigh of frustration at how little he could do for his friends, Aramis replied, “He’s still much too cold.” With a look of regret he met Porthos’ eyes and said, “The warmth of another would be the best way to regain some body heat.”

 

To his credit, Porthos understood exactly what was being asked of him and began removing his weapons and doublet immediately as he clarified, “One or both?”

 

This time, Aramis allowed the sigh to escape as he answered, “Both.”

 

Porthos gave a nod of acknowledgement as he motioned toward the fire, “We’ll need more wood.”

 

Aramis put down his things and moved away to collect more fuel for their fire while Porthos placed his bedroll on the ground, efficiently finished undressing and then positioned Athos on his left before pulling the Gascon close to his other side, practically cradling the young man to his chest. He was unsurprised when the older man snuggled closer and reached a hand across to touch the cold skin of d’Artagnan’s face, whispering, “Stay with me,” before losing his fight with exhaustion.

 

When Aramis returned, he found Porthos bundled beneath all of their blankets with their two friends pressed tightly against his body. A small smile crept across his face as he asked, “How are they?”

 

Porthos’ lips quirked in reply as he said, “Feels like I’m cuddlin’ two blocks of ice.”

 

The marksman’s expression held a small amount of amusement at the large man’s comment but it could not completely erase his underlying worry since the two men were far from being out of danger. “I’ll stoke up the fire and come join you,” Aramis offered.

 

The large man’s expression turned serious as he suggested, “Might be better if you stand watch. Wouldn’t do for both us to be caught without our breeches.” The medic seemed undecided so Porthos added, “We can take turns if you want.” At that, the marksman nodded and set about to establish their meagre camp.

 

At some point, Aramis had laid down on Athos’ other side and, although it was Porthos’ turn to take watch, he’d stayed and moved only to trade places with d’Artagnan, the two healthy men still concerned about both of their hypothermic friends and wanting to cocoon them between their combined body heat. In the early dawn, the Gascon lay quietly, his body having shifted from stillness to painful, full-body shivers, and finally to near stillness again as his temperature gradually climbed. His body felt incredibly heavy and his head seemed stuffed full of wool, and yet he could not help but feel that he needed to open his eyes. He drifted for a long time in a state of semi-awareness, the persistent feeling never abating until the words he was hearing in his dream solidified and his muddled mind realized that they were actually being spoken aloud.

 

“Stay with me…stay with me…stay with me,” the words repeated over and over, so softly that one might miss them if not listening intently, and d’Artagnan found that he _needed_ to know where they were coming from. Opening his eyes took more energy than he’d expected and he wondered fleetingly as a shiver racked his slight frame why he felt so weak. The shuddering of his body had him softly gasping at the fire that spiked in his side and he lay still for several long moments as he tried to cope with the deep, pulsing pain. Finally, he managed to open his eyes to pitiful slits that barely allowed enough light in to be able to distinguish his surroundings, but he forced himself to blink once and then again, Athos’ face coming into focus directly in front of him.

 

As his gaze slowly skittered over his mentor’s face, he was able to discern the furrowed brow and barely moving lips, the mantra falling from them unceasingly as though in prayer. The older man’s eyes were closed in sleep but his rest seemed far from peaceful and d’Artagnan struggled to bring his arm up, battling the fatigue that threatened to overwhelm him. “Athos,” he breathed out, disheartened by how hard it had been to speak his friend’s name; thankfully, it appeared to be enough and, as the Gascon managed to bring his hand clumsily to his mentor’s, Athos opened his eyes.

 

Recognition was almost immediate and the older man’s eyes widened in surprise at the dull brown orbs that stared back at him. Remnants of his dream melded with his memories of the previous day’s events and before conscious thought could assert itself, the familiar words again fell from his lips, “Stay with me, d’Artagnan.”

 

The Gascon’s gaze softened as Athos found his hand and gave it a squeeze, and he answered, “Always, brother.” The night around them fell quiet once more as Athos watched d’Artagnan drift off to sleep before following him, content that the young man would still be there when he woke. Next to them, Aramis and Porthos carefully lifted their heads, trading a look of satisfaction before laying back down to watch over their brothers.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Fête des Mousquetaires challenge for the prompt "brotherhood". For rules, judging, etc. please see the forum page on fanfiction.net for The Musketeers.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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